


The Heroine of the Story

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, skin deep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina doesn't think she's lying about Belle's death.</p>
<p>(Takes place after Skin Deep. Includes no actual violence, just descriptions of the aftermath, so I tagged it anyway)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leap of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be three parts but idk anymore. I JUST DK. It shouldn't be more than five, either way. HOPE YOU ENJOY IT because I really enjoyed writing it. :D

It was a curious thing, faking one’s own death. Belle had read about it in countless books, and she was confident that she knew all the necessary steps.

First, she had to leave an obvious trail, to lead them to her death. This wouldn’t be hard, because she had been flayed so often, the wounds were always open—she left a trail of blood no matter where she went. Her only reprieve was the holy water that the head cleric came and bathed her with once a week.

Next, she had to deal with her corpse. Since she wasn’t dead, she didn’t have one, so she would either have to find one, or find a way to make it seem like hers had been destroyed. Her original plan had been to fake suicide, but unless she could find a substitute corpse, that wasn’t going to work. It had taken her another day to come up with her next plan, which was to make it obvious that she had tried to escape, and let an ‘accident’ befall her on the road. There was a stream nearby, and she would make it look like her body had been taken by it.

It didn’t take long for Belle to realize all the merits of this plan, as opposed to the suicide plan. Making an obvious escape meant that she could take supplies. There wasn’t much in her cell, but there was enough, and it wasn’t like she had the strength to carry a lot while also scaling the side of a tower.

She had spent a week making the decision to fake her death, and after that, she gave herself another week to plan it. She had found that thinking up schemes and committing them to memory was the perfect way to escape while being flayed, burned, or touched in places that no cleric was meant to go. It had taken awhile, but Belle could now say, without a doubt, that she could separate her mind from her body. She knew that some of the men were getting unnerved by her dwindling responsiveness, while others saw this as reason to fixate on some of their more violent fantasies. Only the head cleric seemed to truly believe that he was doing good, and that Belle was somehow transcending.

She wished that he would listen to her when she told him that she had been a virgin pre-exorcism, because Rumpelstiltskin would never touch her without her consent, but he was too fogged with his ideas of purity and healing, and thinking that his clerics were as chaste as he. Still, she was grateful that he had her best interests at heart. She almost felt guilty for leaving him.

If she didn’t leave soon, though, it would be too late. Even with her optimism, and her newfound ability to have out-of-body experiences, she knew that she couldn’t last much longer. Mentally, she was forcing herself to be strong, but physically, she was weak, and she hadn’t had a proper meal since arriving. She planned to escape the night of her next holy water bath. She would be at her cleanest then, and though it would mean a hefty amount of scourging that day, it would also mean rest and hydration.

The bath always came at midnight—the witching hour—and then the head cleric would leave her to get a few hours of sleep. She was allowed no candles, which meant she had to gather her few supplies by the small shaft of moonlight that filled the bare window. Her only protection from the chill of night was a single sheet, and this sheet was crucial to her escape plan. She would rip it to shreds, tie them together, anchor the top to the window with the torture device that looked like a grappling hook, and climb down.

The problem with this plan was the fact that one of the clerics had discovered a new method of “cleansing” her, which involved the palms of her hands. She had no unmarred skin, and most of it was covered in a mixture of dried and fresh blood, but she had been careful the past week to keep her palms away from any of their devices. Today, however, she’d been burned, and the skin of her hands was raw and blistered. If she climbed down the tower, she wasn’t sure the skin would stay, and that was a problem. Her hands were the thing she needed most.

Not escaping, however, was not an option. She had given up on ever being whole and healthy again, but she had not given up on her freedom, and she refused to postpone the escape just because she needed to find a newer, more creative way to get out of this tower. Abandoning her search for items that would help her on her journey, she instead laid on the bed to gather her thoughts and what little strength she had left. There had to be another way.

She was thin now. This was an advantage, when it came to escaping. She had been naked for weeks, which might be a disadvantage, but which could also work to her benefit. She wasn’t sure that she could feel pain anymore, so that was a plus, and she had never been better at going limp in her life—a sure lifesaver if it came to jumping.

Time was running out. Belle had been calm for so long, but now she could feel the prick of nerves around her stomach. Being brave was no longer an option, but neither was being cowardly—she was just numb, and logical. The nerves were bringing back her feelings before she could be ready for them—she needed to stay numb until she hit the ground. Then, and only then, could she think of what had happened to her, or of the person that she hadn’t allowed herself to think about since she’d started planning—the reason she needed to escape.

Her sheet was covered in blood. Her hands were covered in blood. She was red and pink all over, like a skinned animal carcass. She needed to do something.

She looked down at herself, at the body she no longer recognized, and felt the familiar detachment sweeping over her. She was just a bird, flying above all of this. That was all she needed to be.

Or maybe, all she needed to be was a parasol. If she could float, she could descend from the tower without hurting herself, and the fact that the tower was so high meant that her floating would get stronger as she fell. It was risky, but she had more of a chance to survive that than this cursed cleansing.

Confident once again, Belle got out of bed and set to work. She tied the ends of the sheet around each wrist, then clenched her fingers in a vice grip around it. After checking to make sure nothing would inhibit the sheet in its expansion, she crawled onto the window ledge. It was a long way to the ground, but she refused to think of that. She refused to think of anything other than jumping off this ledge.

It was only when her feet left the stone, and the sheet caught the wind, that she allowed her mind to fill with Rumpelstiltskin.

 

* * *

 

The queen licked his teaspoon like she was trying to prove something, and all Rumpelstiltskin could do was imagine her choking on it. He wouldn’t force it along, but he wasn’t sure that he would save her life at that moment, should she somehow fall victim to the cutlery.

“What tragedy?” He wanted to sound threatening, but the best he could manage was sounding hardened, and it would have to do.

An eye for an eye—he had exploited the queen’s most vulnerable moment, and now she was exploiting his. It was the only reason he didn’t work hard to school his expression, why he listened with trembling dread, speaking only when he could latch onto something. Being prone to theatrics himself, he knew all of Regina’s storytelling methods—he could tell when she started to saunter closer that the punch line was coming, and he braced himself.

“After awhile, she threw herself off the tower.” When Rumpelstiltskin didn’t react, her lips tightened. “She’s dead.”

It was worse than if she’d plunged her claws into his chest and ripped his heart out. That pain would subside as soon as she stuck the organ into a box—this pain, he knew, would never go away.

“You’re lying,” he hissed, clinging to the one shred of hope left to him.

“They say she didn’t die right away.” Regina moved away, leaning against the table, back to sounding like the casual gossip. “She managed to drag herself to the river, where she finally drowned. They even found her foot on the banks.”

Something rose in his throat, then—something hot and unpleasant. He could hardly choke out his parting remarks, and it was only this that kept him silent, allowing Regina to have the last word before she left.

Then, once he was sure she was gone, he retreated to his tower, where he was quietly, but thoroughly, sick.

 

* * *

 

Belle had apologized to the poor woman’s corpse thousands of times, though it made no difference. She was dead when she found her, ripped to bits like she’d been mauled by an animal. Her foot had been dragged across the path, and Belle was glad that whatever beast had attacked had done this, because it meant that she hadn’t had to try and pull anything off the body herself.

The foot was the perfect cover, and she dropped it by the trail of blood she’d left by the river, hoping the clerics would come to some morbid conclusion that it was hers. The body, she threw in the water, saying a quick prayer for the poor woman. At the last second, she found some wildflowers, and scattered them over her floating corpse.

Makeshift funeral finished, Belle ripped a strip from her sheet, rubbing it over one of the open wounds on her thighs to bloody it before wedging it under the foot. She forced herself not to think about any of this, because her survival depended on it.

She rinsed her feet and legs in the river, knowing it should have stung, but still unable to connect enough with her nervous system to feel it. She walked upriver, keeping her sheet above the current, until she felt that she had obscured her trail enough. If the clerics were persistent, they could still find her, but she doubted they’d put up much of a chase. They would just find a new girl to exorcise and break. Belle’s heart pulled at the thought, but she couldn’t let that stop her.

The longer she walked, the more sensations returned to her. The twigs and rocks on the floor of the woods started to sting her feet, and she almost cried with relief. She felt cold, next, and so she wrapped the sheet around her shoulders, hugging herself tight. Modesty had long since left her, but she made a note to find clothes for warmth soon. Food, too, was a priority, but she knew no one would feed her if she showed up, naked and broken. It might be better to try to make it all the way to the Dark Castle before eating.

She found that having to propel her own body forward made concentrating on her mind difficult. It was easier when she was bound and limp, because she didn’t have to focus on making her legs move. The separation she achieved as she stumbled through the forest was not as complete as she would have liked it to be, but it helped stave off the hunger.

After a few hours, however, when the sun was just starting to rise, Belle could no longer ignore the fatigue settling in her bones. She was deep in the forest, surrounded by trees and bushes and rocks. Knowing she would collapse in the open somewhere if she didn’t choose to rest now, she looked around for a spot. She found a rock, big enough to hide her from the main road, and gathered fallen leaves and branches to surround her.

Once she had made herself a suitable nest, she wrapped herself in her sheet and curled up. Before she fell asleep, she prayed that she would wake up.

 

* * *

 

She spent three days wandering the forest. She had found another river, in which she had an almost-proper bath, feeling clean for the first time in weeks. Her apathy gave her enough calm to manage to catch fish with her hands, and, once she figured out how to build a fire with nothing to light it, she ate at last.

Time bled together. She didn’t eat or sleep with any sort of schedule, other than when she felt hungry and when she felt tired. Her feet stopped stinging, calloused so much, they were almost their own shoes, and some of her wounds had started to heal. She didn’t allow herself to be afraid for the ones taking on odd colors, or the strange feelings near some of them—she was just grateful that they had all closed, and that she wasn’t bleeding to death.

A map would have been nice. She considered leaving the woods and trying to find one, but the woods felt so much safer than a town would have been. Besides, it wouldn’t have helped her now—all she knew was that she was going north, and she thought that the Castle was in that direction.

“I’m coming, Rumpelstiltskin,” she whispered to no one.

 

* * *

 

Rumpelstiltskin spent three days spinning. He wanted to get revenge, but every time he tried to leave his wheel, he was bowled over by grief and regret. So he sat, and he spun, and sometimes, he cried. Every once in awhile, he thought he heard her calling his name, like any other desperate soul who summoned him, and he almost left his wheel. Then she would appear before him, and he would know that her voice was in his mind, just like her ghost.

He wished that she was just lost, like Bae. Then, he could have found her, devoted any spare attention to searching for her.

But he couldn’t find her, because she wasn’t lost, she was dead. She was dead, and it was his fault. He had cursed her with his love, and she had died trying to be rid of it.

 

* * *

 

Three and a half days of wandering, and Belle was starting to consider becoming a wolf. She’d heard tales of people like that, people who transformed and could live among the wild. She couldn’t change shape, but she was sure that she could easily convince herself to abandon civilization. The only thing that kept her moving forward was Rumpelstiltskin. She wondered if he could hear her whenever she said his name.

She had begun talking aloud to herself. After almost a month of not using her voice, it was all but gone, but with every sentence she spoke to herself, it started to come back. Soon, she just sounded like she had a cold, and she cried when she heard herself.

Her body may have been healing, but her mind was deteriorating. She was frustrated like she had never been before, tired of seeing only trees and rocks and rodents. There was no sign of the mountains that bordered the Dark Castle, or even civilization.

When she stumbled over a root and landed hard on her knee, it was the last straw. Even in her emotionally emotionless state, she felt that the amount of tears shed over the fall was unnecessary. She needed a new plan.

How did one summon the Dark One? When her father had needed him, they’d sent a letter, but she didn’t have a letter to send. All she had was desperation, and she wondered that Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t already sensed it. He was like a hungry wolf when it came to desperate souls.

There was only one thing she could think to try. Before she did, she decided to make camp for the afternoon, setting herself up in a nest by a log, and wrapping herself in her sheet. Once she was as comfortable as possible, she closed her eyes.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she said, as loudly and clearly as her voice could manage. “Rumpelstiltskin. Rumpelstiltskin, Rumpelstiltskin, Rumpelstiltskin.”

Her voice weakened, but she continued to chant his name in her mind. If he could hear her at all, that would be enough.

 

* * *

 

Rumpelstiltskin’s hallucinations were becoming persistent. Her specter had stopped visiting him, but her voice wouldn’t leave, and it was driving him mad. He considered that the wheel might not have been doing him any favors, so he made himself tea in his chipped cup, and tried to study something in his tower.

He couldn’t focus, so he soon found himself back at his wheel, spinning enough gold thread to sustain an entire kingdom.

He didn’t know how long he’d been awake when he managed to fall asleep, head resting against the spokes. He awoke to the sound of his name being called, and, for a bit, ignored it. His mind was determined to torment him, and he would not let it.

It didn’t let up, though. Rumpelstiltskin sat up straighter, forcing himself to think. Could a hallucination awaken him? Dreams could, certainly, but they didn’t continue afterward, and he wasn’t sure that this counted as a dream.

His name was being called. His name was being called over and over. His name was being called by Belle.

Before he could doubt himself, he was gone in a puff of purple smoke.

 

* * *

 

Belle felt like she was in a trance. She didn’t know how long she’d been thinking his name, but she refused to stop. He would come for her, because he did love her, no matter what he said. It was the one thing she was sure of, the one thing that had given her hope in confinement. The only reason he would not come find her was because something had happened to him, but she couldn’t let that be an option.

If he didn’t come, she was going to have to rethink her plan. She knew she couldn’t go on much longer without real food and real treatment, and with only a sheet for protection. She would have to drag herself to the road, and hope it led to a sympathetic town.

She tried not to let the thought fill her with despair. She hadn’t despaired since the beginning of her torture, and if she opened that floodgate, she would drown. She didn’t need despair—she had hope now, and she could rescue herself.

But it would be nice to not have to, after all this. For once, she thought she deserved a rescue, preferably by her true love.

“Hurry, prince,” she whispered, and almost laughed at the image of Rumpelstiltskin astride a white steed that popped up in her mind. “Hurry, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Belle.” The voice was strangled, choked, sounding much like Belle’s own voice. It came from somewhere to her left, and was accompanied by a clumsy rustle in the leaves. Belle had long since lost her ability to be surprised, so she just turned her head to the sound.

“Rumpelstiltskin.” She had wanted her voice to be full of passion, of love, of assurance, but all she could manage was a soft sigh.

Still, it seemed to be just what her love needed, and soon he was at her side, kneeling next to her and looking pale beneath his scales. For a minute, he seemed unable to do anything other than stare, and chant her name. She wanted to reach out to reassure him, but she had cocooned herself in the sheet, so it took some effort.

When she got her arm free so she could cup his cheek, the sheet fell to expose her right side, but she didn’t care. Her body was barely hers anymore, and modesty was foolish. Rumpelstiltskin hissed, recoiling from her with everything but the cheek she held, and Belle considered that she should have felt rejected, but she couldn’t.

“Let me see your feet.”

It was an odd request, but Belle didn’t have the energy or the desire to protest, so she let the rest of the sheet fall away.

Rumpelstiltskin slumped, and his hand came up to cup around hers. He stared at her, naked and scabbed and scarred, before pressing his other hand to her arm. “Forgive me,” he said, and then they were both gone.


	2. Comfortably Numb

At some point, Rumpelstiltskin became aware of a high-pitched whine as he hovered over Belle. It took him much longer to realize that the sound was coming from his own throat.

He had brought her to his tower, in the event that there was some wound he would need a special ingredient to heal. She hadn’t protested at lying on the table, nor had she protested the removal of her sheet, or him touching her every few seconds to make sure she was real. He wanted to just heal her and be done, but he forced himself to take stock of her injuries. Some of them looked like they were getting infected, some looked like they would never close, and some looked fresh. Each one fueled his rage, and the keening soon stopped to be replaced by the silence of anger.

“Is this your workroom?” Belle asked.

He was relieved to hear her being curious, even though her voice was hoarse, and flat. It didn’t have her usual questioning tone, but he supposed that his voice wouldn’t sound like his own either, if he were lying half-dead on a demon’s worktable.

“Indeed.”

He decided to start with her feet, which were blackened from dirt and wounds that had nothing to do with clerics. He worked his way up her legs, and she was so broken that he was exhausted by the time he reached her thighs, but he kept going. When he was finished, he would ask her what had happened.

Once she was healed, he expected her to curl up or ask for a blanket. Instead, she laid there, as still as she’d been when she was injured. He had pictured her naked thousands of times, and tried to convince himself that this was okay, but it couldn’t have been more wrong. It was one thing for Belle to be naked for him—it was another for her to have no clothes, and no pride.

“May I take a bath?” she asked, making him jump.

“Of course. Anything. You can have anything you want.” He took her hand, and she did not shy away. He felt her fingers circle around his, but it was like he had squeezed a reflex more than he had inspired affection.

“Thank you,” she said, and she sounded like she was smiling, but her face remained impassive.

“Can you walk on your own?” he asked. He had the feeling she couldn’t, what with the way she had just lain in the forest, like a breathing corpse.

To his surprise, however, she slid off the table, moving like she was made of liquid. She made no effort to cover herself, and even though her hips swayed as she walked, giving him a lovely view, he still didn’t feel like he was looking at Belle. He understood the desire for nudity when one’s body was covered in bleeding lash wounds, but she was healed now. She should have been shy again—his demure, proper Belle.

He watched her walk out, somehow both ungainly and fluid at the same time. When she reached the doorway, she paused, and turned her whole body to face him.

“Aren’t you coming?”

He averted his eyes, not wanting to stare at her. He didn’t know what to say to this, because he wasn’t sure what she was asking, and he wrung his hands together.

“Belle—”

“Never mind.”

Somewhere, somehow, he had made a mistake. Even with all of his careful hesitation, he had managed to upset her. She was turning away from him now, and he was sure he wasn’t imagining the sudden chill in the air.

When she was gone, he didn’t follow. Instead, he snapped his fingers, filling every tub in the castle with hot water.

 

* * *

 

Rumpelstiltskin was repulsed by her. This was the only explanation for his behavior that Belle could come up with, and it, much more than the flaying and scourges, hurt. She loved him no matter what he looked like, but he could no longer love the woman he saw. She should have died in the woods.

She tried to search out her numbness, the numbness that had been thawing ever since she saw his face, and latched onto it with all the hope she had left. It was easier here than in the forest, because she knew her way around, and there were no dangers. She imagined herself on a quest, seeking the magical waters of some enchanted lake, and was pleased when she found a full tub in the bathroom by her bedroom.

She didn’t know how long she soaked, only that the water never cooled, and she was shriveled and pruned by the time she stepped out. She hadn’t felt this good since the last time she’d been at the Dark Castle, and she delighted in the way that she could actually feel her skin. It was healed, now, and only the faintest scars remained. She wondered if those would heal, too, or if they would be there as a reminder forever. She wouldn’t have minded that. It was a marker of how much of a heroine she was.

Her library room was just as she’d left it, and she was tempted to lay on the bed and sleep for days, but her stomach had other thoughts. She considered putting a dress on, but that sounded far too confining, so she wrapped herself in a blanket, and left for the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Rumpelstiltskin found her bent over the stove, stirring a pot of something. She was wrapped in a sheet from her bed, and it seemed like that was her only protection. He snarled.

“Belle, what are you doing?”

He realized belatedly that he might startle her into doing just what he feared—catching the trailing sheet on fire—but she didn’t even flinch. Instead, she turned around and cast blank eyes at him. He shivered, wanting to look anywhere but her eyes, and finding that he couldn’t because his only other choice  seemed to be her bare breasts.

“Do you not like my cooking now, either?” she asked, and her voice was still so flat that he couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or being serious. He couldn’t remember ever telling Belle that he didn’t like something she had done, so he decided that she had to have been teasing him. Still, it was best to tread with caution.

“You don’t have to cook anymore, Belle.” He kept his voice quiet, taking a single step toward her. “I’m going to take care of you. Forever.”

While he didn’t necessarily expect gratitude, he expected some sort of emotion. Belle just backed away from the stove, giving him enough room to take her place. He did, watching her every second, but all she did was stand there.

“Why don’t you go sit down?” He gestured toward the dining room. “I’ll bring you some when it’s done.”

She nodded, and glided out, the sheet trailing behind her like the train of a ball gown. He watched until he heard the chair scrape the floor when she pulled it from the table, and then turned back to the pot in front of him. It seemed that she had been trying to make stew, and he wasn’t sure exactly what she had put in it, but he wasn’t about to alter it. He watched it until he deemed it done, adding a little magic to speed the process, and then filled a tray with two bowls, two spoons, and a loaf of bread.

Belle was sitting at the table when he arrived, eyes glassy and far away. When he set the stew down, she turned toward it, looking at it like she wasn’t quite sure what it was. After a few seconds, she picked up her spoon, and poked at a carrot. He watched, hoping he hadn’t made a mistake, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when she took a bite.

From that point on, it was like he didn’t exist, so focused was she on the task of eating. He sat at the chair next to hers, not touching his own because he was too engrossed in watching her inhale. When she took her last spoonful, he snapped his fingers and switched their bowls, a small smile playing on his face when she didn’t even notice.

When she finished, she bowed her head, and he was seized with discomfort at the thought that she might cry. Her shoulders shook, and he patted himself down for a handkerchief, but as soon as sound reached his ears, he realized she wasn’t crying—she was laughing.

“What?” he asked, dumbstruck at the low giggles coming out of his Belle. She sounded like him, and he couldn’t decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I haven’t been hungry—or full—in so long.”

He had to clench his fists hard enough to draw blood to keep from slamming his hands on the table at this. He didn’t know what the exact implications of such a statement were, but he knew that it was nothing good.

“Belle.” His voice came out like a hiss, and he was afraid he would startle her, but Belle just turned her blank face toward him.

“Hmm?”

“What did they do to you?” It was, perhaps, not the best dinner conversation, but he needed to ask. He didn’t want to know, but he had to, and Belle didn’t look like she minded. In fact, Belle didn’t even look like she’d heard. She turned to gaze at her empty bowl.

“They cleansed me.” She let out another hollow giggle, and it made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

“How?”

“The head cleric bathed me in holy water once a week.” She didn’t laugh again, and he couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

“And do you feel cleansed of your demon taint?” He tried to use his usual pomp and flourish, but all he could manage was the lilting voice. His arms refused to gesture, and his face refused to look impish.

“How can clerics cleanse someone of their own taint?” She laughed again, and her head rocked to face him. He couldn’t reconcile the emptiness in her eyes with the Belle he knew, and for the first time in centuries, Rumpelstiltskin felt real, genuine fear.

“Belle—”

“Can I ask you a question?” There was no change in her face or her voice, but at least she wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Of course. Anything.” He could only hope that he would have an answer.

“Do clerics have magic?”

He considered the question, ignoring the relief he felt at it being purely academic. This meant that he only needed to draw on his knowledge, and dig no further than the facts he kept stored away.

“In a sense. It’s not powerful, but they’ve got more of a connection to magic than someone who isn’t a cleric.”

“Would they be able to sense a demon taint?”

She was watching him, and he wondered if she was asking what he thought she was asking. If she was, he knew the answer, and if she wasn’t, he didn’t want to give the wrong answer and scare her.

“Elaborate.”

“Would they know if you and I had been together?”

“Sort of.”

She leaned toward him, shifting only when her breast caught on the table. He made a mental note to make finding clothes for her his next priority.

“Explain,” she said.

He didn’t want to explain. He didn’t want to use any words about sex while Belle was sitting at his table, naked and broken. He was a little afraid that he would blush. He swallowed.

“A powerful enough cleric would be able to sense virginity, yes. But they wouldn’t be able to tell how it was lost, or who took it.”

She looked down again, and then was so still, he thought she might shatter. Then, her giggles began again, starting out soft and low, and building until she almost sounded amused—like she had just heard a particularly funny joke. But there was something wrong with them, something off, and each peal of dead laughter had Rumpelstiltskin feeling colder and colder.

The last time he had been this spooked, there was a swirling, glowing portal sucking his son into a different world. Even then, the fear wasn’t quite the same, was more regret than terror. Rumpelstiltskin felt like a horse who’d just seen a snake, except he couldn’t rear up and run away—he had to sit there, watching his Belle and her manic mirth.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked when he could stand it no longer.

She tilted her glassy, wet stare toward him, shoulders still shaking with chuckles. “It’s better than the alternative.”

He had no answer for that, and so, because he was a coward, changed the subject.

“I haven’t touched your room.”

She tilted her head a fraction, and then gave him a slow, languid blink. He wasn’t sure what to take from this, so he just continued.

“All of your clothes are still there.”

“Thank you.”

She was still watching him, and he wasn’t sure how else to bring up her nudity without offending or upsetting her. He was still holding onto the hope that he could upset her, that something could break through the glass in her eyes and find a reaction.

“You don’t—”

“I’m tired.” She looked up at him, and squinted. “Oh, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

He stared at her. Even in this state, she still apologized for interrupting him. She was so odd, and perfect. He was going to murder every cleric in the realm.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything you need before bed?”

She shook her head. “I’ll clean up first.”

“No.” He swallowed when she looked at him, and he was going to have to work on not offending her. “I’ll do it.”

“I want to help.”

How could she think that he would just let her go back to work in her state? As soon as she was asleep, he was going to write down all of the reasons that he could say no to her requests, and then memorize them.

“Take a few days off. You’re tired.”

She looked at him, and he felt as naked as she was under her stare. He tried to hold his ground, but he looked away before she did.

“Okay,” she said, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was trying to comfort him when he should be doing everything in his considerable power to comfort her.

 

* * *

 

Belle slid into bed, and felt tears well up. It was warm, like someone had left the sheets by a fire to dry, and soft and fluffy. She hadn’t felt anything like this since leaving, and it was even better than her hot bath.

Confident that she would fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, Belle laid down and closed her eyes. Her mind filled with blood and scourges and fire, and she opened them again, pulling the quilt to her chin. She breathed in, counting to five before breathing out, and tried to seek out her numbness. When she was confident again, she closed her eyes.

She thought she fell asleep, at least for a few seconds, but she shot up in bed feeling like the flesh of her palms was being peeled off. She tried again, gulping down air, but it was hard, and she couldn’t—she was comfortable, and safe, and her mind was telling her that she didn’t need to cope with anything anymore, but she did, she did, and when she laid back again and closed her eyes, she couldn’t ignore the way her skin burned and her legs ached and it felt like she was being peppered with knife tips, and was she asleep or awake? It didn’t matter now, because she wasn’t in the Castle, she was in her tower, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming.

 

* * *

 

The shrieks echoing throughout the castle sounded like a woman on fire. Rumpelstiltskin ran up the stairs, forgetting in his haste that he could magic himself there, and ripped open the door to the library.


End file.
